


Distraction

by DevBasaa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevBasaa/pseuds/DevBasaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of Age of Ultron, Sam and Steve have found Bucky and Steve is helping him recover at Avenger’s Tower, courtesy of Tony Stark.  Not surprisingly, things get complicated.  All Steve wants to do is help Bucky, but emotions and attraction are not what he planned for.  So what happens now between a man confused by his feelings and his best friend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, when I started this story, it was going to be short and completely tongue-in-cheek. But then the emotions evolved and next thing I know, I’m tackling much more angst and needing to edit out the campy bits to make it work as a whole. Then it grew. It’s 3x as long as originally planned. Didn’t see that coming. Or the prequel I’m working on, either. And a side-story. Then Age of Ultron happened, so I tightened up the canon references. It’s been my baby for a while. 
> 
> I hope you like it. =)

~*~ 

“So, ‘Cybernetics ‘R Us’ seems a little edgy today.”

Steve looked up from his cup of coffee and that morning’s copy of the New York Times. Tony stood at the common room kitchenette, stirring a spoonful of sugar into a very large mug, exercising his creativity with yet another mildly offensive nickname. Nothing new, really.

There were days when Steve looked around Avenger’s Tower and smiled, thankful for Tony and this place he’d built--and especially his open door policy that allowed Steve to come stay there whenever he needed. No matter when, no matter how long. 

And then there were days when cracking Tony in the jaw didn’t seem like such a bad idea. 

Steve sighed and set aside the paper. “He’s only recently started using his name again. Maybe encourage that?”

Tony spread his hands, his spoon flicking droplets of coffee across the counter. “What did I say?”

Steve had given up on explaining Tony to Tony months ago. With a shake of his head, he asked, “Where’s he at?”

Tony stirred his coffee again. “Out on the main balcony. I asked him what he thought of the view and he told me to get lost. Touchy.”

Steve studied Tony for a moment, one brow raised. “What did you _actually_ say?”

Tony shrugged. “I might have prefaced the question with a little clarification that he wasn’t going to take a flying leap. A sidewalk stain like that would not help what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

Sighing, Steve stood, took a final gulp of his coffee and headed for the stairwell which led to the main balcony. “Why are you such an ass sometimes?”

“I think you’ve met my father?” Tony called after him.

~*~

Bucky still stood where Tony likely had left him, leaning against the balustrade, looking out over New York City. Steve scuffed his feet as he stepped from the stairwell so he wouldn’t startle Bucky with his approach. Bucky had made great strides in the months since they’d moved him into Avengers Tower, but Steve still respected all Bucky had been through and tried not to take anything for granted. Bucky had days when he needed his space and kept everyone at arm’s length. Steve supposed he could have easily told Tony to get lost. But, lately, he mostly showed signs of his old self, laughing or talking like the Bucky Steve remembered—a great change from when Steve and Sam had first found him, still lost in a damaged mind and suspicious of everything.

Steve matched Bucky’s stance, arms resting on the railing, facing forward. “You all right?”

Bucky didn’t move. “Stark sent you?”

Steve supposed, in his way, that was exactly what Tony had done. Tony couldn’t just say, “Go check on your friend”, but the underlying intent was there—if couched in crude observations and sarcastic comments.

“More or less.”

“He has a mouth on him, that one.”

Steve chuckled. “That he does.”

“He asks the most inappropriate things.”

That comment sent a line of tension down Steve’s spine. He’d asked everyone who frequented the Tower—Pepper, Natasha and Clint, Sam, Maria, Rhodey—to have patience with Bucky, to not push him too far, too fast. For a man who’d had all control stolen from him for so many years, he needed to feel safe at all times, that he controlled his own decisions—at least, that was Steve’s goal and everyone had seemed completely on-board. But was Tony disrupting that plan?

Steve straightened and faced Bucky. “Like what?”

“He asked—“ Then Bucky shook his head, his long hair fluttering with the high-altitude wind. He dropped his gaze towards the streets below. “Nevermind.”

“No, really, Bucky, if Stark is causing a problem, I want to know.”

“He’s not causing a problem. I think he tried to talk shop with me, about women and conquests and...I think porn was mentioned—“ Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Steve clenched his jaw. So many times, he wanted to punch Stark, if only because he didn’t know a better way to shut the man up. Natasha had once said that Tony had no filter between his brain and his mouth. It was one of the truest things Steve had ever heard. “If he’s making you uncomfortable—“

Bucky cut in. “That’s not it, exactly. I mean, really, he was trying to talk to me like I was normal. Except I’m not.” He finished with a chuckle that made the wind around them feel even colder. Steve grimaced.

“Bucky...”

“No, really. I mean, I can’t even—I haven’t….dammit.” Bucky turned his head away.

Steve shifted closer until his arm pressed against Bucky’s. The metal felt warm from the sun. He leaned close and pitched his voice low. “You know you can say anything to me. Just like when we were kids.”

Bucky didn’t move, so neither did Steve. He’d stay there and wait as long as Bucky needed—even if he said nothing at all. Frankly, Steve simply liked being near Bucky again. He always knew he missed him, but he never realized how much until he saw him again.

After a long moment, Bucky sighed and tipped his head towards Steve. “I’ve tried to...get off, and I can’t.”

“Oh.”

Bucky looked away. “Yeah.”

Steve supposed it made sense. With everything Bucky had been through, the ramifications could be broader and deeper than they’d considered. Bucky knew so little from his time as the Winter Soldier. Anything could have happened to him. He could have been injured; there could be damage.

A sense of urgency flushed through Steve; his words flew out of him fast: “Well, here’s where Stark’s an asset. He knows people who don’t ask questions—doctors, even. We can get someone involved, maybe there’s test—“

“I don’t need a doctor—at least, I don’t think so.” Bucky sighed and tipped his head towards Steve again; their temples touched. The contact settled Steve’s anxious spike.

Bucky kept his voice very hushed, despite their solitude on the balcony. “I think everything works fine. I just—it’s like I’m thinking too much. I start as things should, but then all these images rush into my head, nothing you want to think about at a time like that. Bad things. I can’t focus, I can’t push the thoughts out. So anything I’ve started has...deflated before it gets anywhere.”

Steve nodded. “So a different kind of doctor, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

Steve waited a moment, following his own advice about not pushing. Then he took a deep breath. “I know you’ve talked with Sam a lot in those first weeks, but probably not about this, right?”

Bucky chuckled softly, though it didn’t feel as cold as before. “I only recently realized I had a problem. It’s not exactly been a priority--not since...I can’t even remember when. I thought I was getting better, and now...”

Steve shifted to drape his arm across Bucky’s shoulders and draw him closer. He rested his head against Bucky’s. “You are, Bucky. You’re so much better. This is just another turn in the journey. We’ll figure it out.”

Bucky leaned against Steve; his bodyweight felt good and reassured Steve that he’d at least said the right things.

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky finally said; Steve held him tighter.

~*~

Bucky asked to be alone again. Steve hadn’t really wanted to leave him there, but he vowed he’d always respect that request. So he pressed a light kiss to Bucky’s temple, a familiar affection he’d picked up once Bucky let him close enough, and returned inside. 

As he slowly returned to the common area, Steve’s thoughts turned with Bucky’s problem. He considered calling Sam for some advice and input, but Sam had been doing extra work at the DC VA--taking some much needed downtime from the Avenger’s Facility--and Steve didn’t want to bother him. And he also wasn’t sure Bucky would want to be discussed like that. Tony had, apparently, tried to discuss porn with Bucky--which Tony would consider worthy small talk, though others would not. And, yet, that might be the kind of solution Bucky needed: a distraction, something else to focus on instead of his own troubling thoughts.

By this hour of the day, Tony usually would escape to his lab and not surface for hours, so Steve nearly ran into a chair, surprised to find him waiting in the common room and announcing his presence with a declaration: “I have a thought.”

Steve had learned fast that those words from Tony had a fifty percent chance of leading to something utterly brilliant. And a fifty percent chance of being completely insane. Ultron proved the theory. 

Steve folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”

Tony gestured with mug, still in hand. “Maybe Natasha can help. I imagine it’s, you know, come up once or twice. Spies do whatever needs to be done, right? It’s in all the spy movies. She tried to seduce me once--well, sort of.”

Steve couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. There were so many things wrong with that statement, he didn’t know where to begin. Except... 

“Wait.” Steve closed his eyes a moment to give him either strength or self-control; he wasn’t sure which, yet. Then he looked at Tony. “You were listening in?”

Tony pressed one hand to his chest, like a melodramatics’ act of shock. “Me? Absolutely not.” Then he shrugged. “I asked Friday to. But she refused--must be some lingering protocol from Jarvis. I might have turned on the balcony speaker and recorded it on a ten-second delay, so I don’t think that makes it, technically, “listening in”” He made the appropriate gesture of quotation marks with his fingers, awkwardly with the mug still in his right hand.

Steve stared at him, mouth open. What could he even say to that?

Tony spread his hands. “Hey, I’m worried about your friend, too.”

“I’m not sure your kind of worry is what he needs right now.”

Tony pointed at Steve with the mug. “Which brings us back to the original question. Do you want me to talk to our femme assassin extraordinaire or are you going to?”

Steve swore he felt his blood pressure skyrocket. “Don’t be absurd, Tony. No one is soliciting Natasha.”

“She could honored to help, you don’t know.”

Steve closed his eyes again for self-control; he knew it this time. “You didn’t hear any of this. DO NOT discuss it with Natasha, understand?”

Tony turned away and made a dismissive noise. “I give you an actual, workable solution and you attack me. In my own home, I might add.”

“You are not soliciting Natasha.” Steve wasn’t sure he could say that enough.

“You make it sound so criminal. That’s terrible, Steve, it’s a beautiful art form.”

Steve had nothing left to say. He stared at Tony a moment longer, then turned away to escape to his own quarters. The only blessing in Bucky’s current mood would be that he’d probably avoid everyone for the rest of the day--especially Tony--so that he didn’t have to deal with anymore of that nonsense.

~*~

Steve couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t stop worrying about Bucky.

Bucky had kept his distance, as expected, the rest of that day. Steve only saw him at the periphery: slipping from one room to the next, pouring himself a cup of coffee, giving Steve a nod and a smile, then escaping to his quarters.

Which shouldn’t have bothered Steve—it wasn’t a new behavior. But it had bothered him. Had he failed Bucky by only having some vague, directionless answer? Clearly Bucky was distressed by this and Steve couldn’t offer more than, “we’ll figure it out”?

And while Tony’s attempt at pimping Natasha was disgusting and wrong, he also had a point. He had given Steve an actual solution, one that Steve had already figured would work: distraction. Maybe, to break the ice, Bucky needed more direct help.

Maybe a doctor and a “good talk” wasn’t at all what Bucky needed.

Bucky’s quarters were down the hall from the common area. Steve had a door right off the main room and Tony’s penthouse was the entire floor above them. No one would see Steve; no one would need to know.

Bucky had said how comfortable he’d felt with Steve before. He’d come to accept Steve’s small affections without a flinch. He even leaned into the gestures and touches and words Steve offered. Maybe Steve could offer him a safe distraction and release as well? They’d once been closer than even brothers could be, at least that’s how Steve had thought of it.

Steve moved to Bucky’s room as if on assignment, able to not make a sound. Unlike other times he approached Bucky’s room, he didn’t announce his presence with noise. He figured Bucky’s immediate response to being woken in the night by Steve would be worry, maybe panic. Steve carefully opened the door.

Steve had certainly been in Bucky’s room, but only in the daylight. He supposed the soft blue nightlight didn’t surprise him, that Bucky would want to be able to see and understand his surroundings immediately after opening his eyes, no matter what time of night. Bucky had said that pitch blackness was too oppressive, recalling a cold awakening during his years as the Winter Soldier.

It looked like dusk, a soft blue-grey tone blanketed every surface, including the long mound of Bucky’s blanket covered body and the hard-lined features of his face.

Steve remembered the softer face of Bucky from a lifetime ago. Bucky could be so relaxed in sleep back in their Brooklyn days that he’d drool onto his pillow and Steve would have to push him away when he curled too close to keep him from breathing hot and wet against his neck, like a panting dog. It’d been an annoyance then; Steve smiled thinking of it now. How he missed those days of such complete comfort and familiarity.

Would they ever be able to have that again?

Seeing Bucky sleeping, calm, peaceful, Steve considered turning back around and giving up on this completely absurd plan. Was it really any better than Tony’s idea? Should he really wake Bucky for this?

Then Bucky made a sound, a desperate noise, like the start of a scream that he swallowed before it could erupt. Steve arrived at Bucky’s bedside in the next instance.

Steve knew of the nightmares, because Bucky spoke of them, but he always avoided the details. Instead, Bucky would brush off the conversation into small talk or a memory he liked to re-visit. Steve wanted to help with those too, but again he only offered words and promises that amounted to nothing.

Why wasn’t he ever doing more than supplying empty platitudes?

“Bucky?”

Steve kneeled at Bucky’s bedside, facing him, seeing his face twist, his brow furrow. Bucky cried out again, softly, but the sound cut against Steve’s chest with the precision of a knife. He gently laid his hand against Bucky’s head, smoothing the hair from his face.

“Hey, Buck, it’s Steve. You’re all right.” Then Steve touched Bucky’s lips; he wasn’t sure why he did that. To quiet him? Another reassurance?

But the touch had the desired effect; Bucky opened his eyes.

“You’re OK,” Steve said, quickly, smiling. He brushed his fingers across Bucky’s cheek. “It’s just me.”

Bucky nodded and stared, wide-eyed, at Steve. Steve supposed Bucky didn’t expect to see Steve kneeling at his bedside. He wondered if Bucky thought he was still dreaming.

Taking a swallow of courage, Steve softly made his proposal: “I wanted to help you. With—with the problem we discussed earlier.”

Bucky furrowed his brow. “What?” His voice cracked, rusty from sleep.

“I thought--” Steve heard his own voice waver with nervousness. Was this a mistake? “I thought, if I was here, it’d be different enough, a distraction, to keep those bad thoughts at bay.”

It didn’t have to be him, Steve supposed. He could have approached this in a completely different way; he could have asked Bucky what he wanted and helped arrange it. But Steve didn’t like the idea of handing Bucky’s problem off to someone else. It seemed wrong. He felt responsible for Bucky; he knew he owed him. And Steve wouldn’t trust anyone to help his friend, not with this. 

“Trust me.” Steve tugged at Bucky’s blankets, lifting them and sliding under. The cocooned warmth felt good after the cool, cultured cement floors of Avenger’s Tower.

Bucky moved aside to give him room. “I trust you,” he said, though his face was still lined with confusion, his brow furrowed deep. Yet, he didn’t hesitate to take the covers from Steve and lift them high to let him come closer.

Steve settled himself on his side and first put his hand against Bucky’s bare chest. They often worked out together, so he was used to seeing Bucky in little more than shorts. He slept in his boxers. Steve wore a t-shirt and flannel pants. Back in those early days in Brooklyn, Steve would always wear a proper pajama shirt and pants, an annual Christmas gift from his Great-Aunt Lucy, while Bucky would sleep only in his shorts then, too. Some things never changed. 

Bucky’s chest felt hot as Steve gently urged him to lie back down against his pillows. He followed the wordless command, watching Steve intently. Steve stared back, his heartbeat racing as his hand trembled against Bucky’s chest. He’d never done anything like this before; he hadn’t even thought about doing it before--

Well, not exactly.

He stared back at Bucky, at a face so familiar and foreign at the same time. A face he knew from the best and worst times of his life. What should he do next? What would he imagine someone else doing for him? 

Steve saw Bucky’s throat work, him swallowing hard against his own nervousness, Steve supposed. “Listen, Steve--”

“Shhhh--” But the words had loosened Steve from his tension. He slowly brushed his fingers down Bucky’s sternum, his gaze following his hand. “Let me.”

“What do you--”

Steve pushed the blankets back as he continued to lower his hand, his fingers brushing along the strong flank of Bucky’s torso. “Just—I’m here to help.”

Steve had no count of how many times he shared a bed with Bucky through their early years together. He felt as familiar as kin; he never hesitated to touch Bucky with a comfort borne of many years of closeness. But this wasn’t the body that Steve remembered at all. Not even during the war, built-up after weeks of boot camp. This body had strength and form that mimicked his own. He felt solid and study, but his skin was scattered with scars Steve had never seen. Rubbing his thumb against a thick, gnarled scar, Steve then ran his fingers down the length of it, following it even as it disappeared under Bucky’s boxers. Steve cupped the sharp angle of Bucky’s hip.

Then he glanced back up at Bucky. Had he realized Steve’s intent now? Should Steve stop? Bucky still watched him intently. His chest rose and fell faster than before; his eyes were wide, dilated, his mouth open. But he said nothing. He had his head lifted, watching, tension across his shoulders.

“Relax.”

For a second, Steve thought Bucky had a response at the tip of his tongue. Then his shoulders evened out and he laid his head back against the pillow. He let out a long sigh.

Steve shifted to use both hands and push the elastic band of Bucky’s shorts down. Bucky lifted his hips and Steve smiled at the further wordless submission. He uncovered Bucky’s already half-hard cock.

Steve supposed it was as Bucky had said, that everything seemed to work as it should. That function wasn’t the problem. As Steve gently wrapped his fingers around the base of Bucky’s erection, he felt the truth in that; he felt the hardness build.

“God, Steve…”

Steve slowly stroked his palm up Bucky’s shaft.

“Do you remember--” Steve didn’t know why he started to tell this story, maybe he meant it to be an additional distraction for Bucky. Maybe it was to distract himself. “I think we were 17. My mother was working a night shift and you were going to stay over, but it was just a cover so you could go to that pool hall on DeKalb and meet the girl you liked, the one your mother disapproved of.” Steve stopped to spit in his hand and found how much better he could move his hand over Bucky’s skin. Why hadn’t he considered bringing lotion? He had lotion at his own bedside. “I stayed home thinking about you and her, thinking about you kissing her and being jealous because you always had the girls. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah…” The word came out like a sigh, an exhale. Steve glanced back to see Bucky still relaxed against the pillow, his eyes closed.

Steve picked up the pace of his hand, just a little, as he liked to for himself, creating a slow build.

“It was late, I think you figured I’d already be asleep when you came back to my apartment with her. I had that closet you and I fixed up like a bedroom and I heard you, so I opened the door. You were sitting on the sofa, your legs were spread wide and she was kneeling between them. You had your dick in your hand, stroking it. I don’t know what you were saying to her, I don’t think I could hear, but I remember thinking how much bigger you were than I remembered. It’d been years since we’d skinny-dipped in the Hudson and I hadn’t seen you naked since and…”

Steve faltered in his story. His own body responded to the memory; responded to the moment. He shifted to rest heavier against Bucky and he bent his leg so that Bucky couldn't see Steve’s own erection. He didn’t want to trouble Bucky with any thoughts other than his own pleasure.

Clearing his throat, his voice pitching a little deeper as his own arousal grew, Steve continued. “You were stroking yourself and then she pushed your hands away and she started sucking you. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know people did that sort of thing back then. Her head was bobbing over your crotch and I could see from your face how good it felt and I was imagining it was me--” Steve closed his eyes, remembering, thinking about the boy he was in that moment, aroused and confused and uncertain. “That s-someone was sucking on me and I stayed hidden half behind the door and I put my hand down my pants and started stroking myself, watching, feeling all sorts of things—”

“Steve—” Bucky groaned his name, deep and guttural. Steve decided he shouldn’t turn and look this time. He quickened the pace of his hand.

“But I guess I was pretty jealous of you, getting her to do that, making you feel so good. She went faster and you moaned and I stroked myself faster and thought how good it felt and how good it looked, watching you two and then I came, right in my shorts and I think you came in her mouth—”

“God—” Bucky pistoned his hips up and Steve realized how close he was; he focused his efforts with a steady, fast pace.

“That’s it, yeah.” He felt as breathless as if it were his own climax building. Bucky groaned again and arched as he came, erupting over Steve’s hand. When Steve conceived of this idea, he’d wondered if he’d be bothered by it at all, if causing another man’s orgasm would be strange somehow. But it wasn’t. The wash of satisfaction he felt as Bucky came made perfect sense. The smile on Steve’s face felt broad and natural; the sounds that Bucky made his heartbeat spike.

Steve murmured another encouragement as he slowed his strokes, his hand wet with Bucky’s spill. Then he frowned: he hadn’t considered bringing a towel--he hadn’t considered a lot of things, it seemed. He glanced around and then down. 

“Just a sec, Buck.”

Steve wiped his hand on his pajama pants and then quickly shucked them off, down to his boxer-briefs. His own erection had subsided a bit and the further distraction of purpose only relaxed it further. He turned back to Bucky and cleaned him up with his flannel pants. 

“There you go…” He wasn’t sure why he kept talking as he gently wiped away the evidence of Bucky’s orgasm and helped pull his shorts back up. “I just wanted you to feel better. I hope--well, I’m figuring you do.”

Bucky only sighed in response--and lifted his hips when appropriate--which Steve supposed was an answer in itself. 

A sort of self-satisfied smile quirked Steve’s lips. He’d done it. He’d been able to distract and relax Bucky, but also arouse him and give him release. Steve twisted around to look at Bucky. He had his eyes closed, his flesh hand threaded into his hair, his other arm draped across his stomach. He looked more relaxed than Steve swore he’d ever seen him since his return. He looked like the Bucky of days gone by, who might fall asleep and drool on his pillow.

Steve drew the blanket back up over his hips, then patted Bucky’s thigh. Maybe it was brazen, maybe a bit ill conceived, but Steve strongly felt he’d made the right decision. He’d been there for his friend with more than just empty words.

“Sleep well.”

Steve barely rose to a stand before the cold clasp of Bucky’s metal fingers grabbing his wrist stopped him.

Bucky had opened his eyes and looked at Steve; his gaze seemed full of emotion, but his expression was flat. Steve wondered if he was puzzled or thankful or something else entirely. His face, though, Steve couldn’t read.

But Bucky’s words were enough: “Stay.”

Steve smiled and let out his own sigh. He supposed there was no harm in it. They had, after all, shared something intimate and had spent many years sharing a bed. Having someone comfortable and familiar after any intimacy felt good.

“Of course.”

Just as they had started, Bucky lifted the covers for Steve to climb underneath. Steve stretched out beside Bucky and nestled close. Bucky watched him for a moment, but then turned onto his stomach, his head towards Steve, and closed his eyes. After Steve settled, Bucky then draped his flesh arm across Steve’s abdomen. Steve smiled. They laid like that, as kids. Steve on his back, Bucky on his stomach, his arm draped across Steve. 

Steve patted Bucky’s arm and studied his already lax face. He loved the calmness he saw there; he loved the smoothness of his brow. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he leaned over and kissed the gentle curve of Bucky’s forehead before closing his eyes for sleep.

 

...tbc...


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve plans a quiet evening at home. Or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [jediartemis](http://jediartemis.tumblr.com/) for the beta help!
> 
> Reminder: Small spoilers for Age of Ultron, be warned!

~*~

Steve woke with a stretch. When his arm brushed across an empty pillow, Steve remembered where he was and why. He bolted upright and looked around Bucky’s room.

Sunlight touched every corner. It reflected in the small mirror over the bare-topped dresser; it made long yellow trapezoid shapes on the bare walls, flooded in from two large-paned windows that framed the bed. The only space that didn’t glint with sunlight was the darkened bathroom, the door slightly ajar.

The early morning light showed Steve an empty room. Bucky had already gone.

Steve was surprised he’d slept so long; surprised that Bucky had let him sleep this long.

Not that he thought Bucky would have kicked him from his bed--not after he asked Steve to stay, not after what Steve had done.

At least, that’s what he had to believe. Or, at least, what he hoped.

“Friday? Can you tell me where Sergeant Barnes is?”

No one discussed the change, but Steve rather missed Jarvis’ voice as Tony’s AI. That cultured lilt had reminded Steve of much older times, of SSR in London--and of Peggy Carter--and had a wit that Steve found unexpected, especially coming from a disembodied voice. But he still heard that voice--in The Vision--but it belonged to him now.

Friday answered, “He’s on the 10th level, completing his exercises. Do you want me to say you’re looking for him?”

“Uh, no, that’s all right. I just...wanted to make sure he—um, Friday?” 

“Yes?”

Steve shoved his fingers into his hair and scraped them across his scalp. Why did he feel so conflicted about this request? It wasn’t so odd, was it? He needed to make sure Bucky seemed OK, that was all.

“Can I see him?”

“The vid-screen to your right, sir.”

Until the screen came to life, Steve wouldn’t have realized that blank wall had been anything more than a blank wall. But now he could see nearly the whole of the 10th floor--the basement gym, as Tony liked to called it. Tony had installed everything Goldie’s gym had, including a massive sparring ring and every imaginable punching bag, plus free weights, weighted sleds and state of the art kick-boxing dummies that could actually evade, for that added level of realism. They’d become Natasha’s favorite toy.

But there was also plenty of open space off to one corner. It was there that Bucky stood, split-stance, on a wide pale blue mat.

Bucky had a routine that he did every morning. Steve ran his miles, but Bucky did karate forms and tai chi. He’d told Steve they were meditative for him, mindless and mindful at the same time. He wore a pair of loose grey running pants and a thin, dark blue tank-top; he faced away from the mirror. Shifting his body in the slow motion of the most highly trained masters, each tiny bunching of muscle deliberate and careful, Bucky melted from one form into another. His eyes were closed and he had his hair pulled back into a small ponytail.

Bucky’s control was beyond impressive--mesmerizing, really. He moved like ripples on water, still and sure, silent and subtle. His abdomen was tight, his thighs bulging as he maintained perfect balance. And his face--serene, smooth, calm. He looked as relaxed as he had last night, after--

Steve closed his mouth to moisten it, fully aware that he sat there staring at his friend. But it was for study, for purpose, to make sure Bucky did seem OK after last night.

Then why did Steve feel so warm and become suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat?

He looked away. “Um, yeah, that’s enough, Friday. Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”

Steve glanced again at the now ordinary blank wall. The request to have Friday turn the screen back on was at the tip of his tongue. Instead he threw off the blankets and hurried to his own room. He was late for his run.

~*~

No one else would have noticed the changes; they were likely too subtle for anyone but Steve. He knew every motion of Bucky; he knew each small gesture. He saw how Bucky’s smile came a bit easier than before, how he stood maybe a fraction closer than he did three days ago.

Or Steve stood closer to him and Bucky didn’t move away.

Either way, they were tiny changes that amounted to a miracle for Steve.

Nevermind that neither of them had spoken about what happened, what Steve did. Nevermind that Steve’s bed felt larger and emptier than it had before. The important thing was that Bucky did seem better, more relaxed, more _himself_. More the Bucky Steve remembered.

Steve set down four bottles of water on the common room coffee table as the elevator door opened. He looked up to see Pepper Potts stride in, glimmering like night stars in a long grey gown, iridescent from head to toe. 

“Pepper, you look lovely.”

Pepper smiled as she tucked a beaded handbag under her arm. “Thank you, Captain Rogers, you’re terribly sweet.”

“What special soiree is on the agenda tonight?”

“A fundraiser for--” Pepper’s smile faltered, though only for a second. Her gaze darted beyond Steve, then she increased the wattage of her smile. “It’s for the Robin Hood Foundation. I’m very excited to be able to support them.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder, though he didn’t need to. By Pepper’s reaction, he knew Bucky had come into the common area. Pepper did her best to hide it, but Bucky intimidated her. She’d read all the reports; she knew the dark and complicated history of the Winter Soldier program nearly as thoroughly as Tony. She also never balked once when Tony invited Bucky to live in Avenger’s Tower. Her exact words were, “Whatever you need,” and Steve had appreciated that.

For Bucky, Steve smiled and acknowledged him with a nod, which Bucky returned. Steve figured Bucky was perfectly aware that Pepper wasn’t comfortable with him, but he seemed to take it in stride. 

“Do you anticipate a good turnout?” Steve spoke to Pepper, but kept his head turned to watch Bucky pick up one of the bottles of water and take a drink. It was the simplest, most routine of actions. So why did he find it mesmerizing?

“Not if Stark Industries fails to make an appearance. Donors like to see faces when they sign checks--TONY!”

Steve turned at Pepper’s shout and glanced up at the lab above the common room. The ceiling was vaulted to provide Tony’s upper level room with a balcony to look out over the lounge area. So he could see the “little people”, he’d once said. Clint pegged him in the head with a well-aimed rubber-band for that comment.

Tony appeared at the balustrade. He had on sunglasses and was dressed in a finely cut tuxedo, his bowtie woven with thread that glinted slightly when the light caught it. “You called. Or screeched. But I answer to screeches, so you’re in luck.”

Pepper sighed. “Tony, please, we’re going to be late. We’re sponsoring this event, so--” 

“People expect me to be late. It’s fashionable, it’s stylish--” Tony made a flippant gesture.

“It’s rude.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Are you coming down?”

Steve smiled and turned away from the Pepper and Tony show. Tony seemed to take greater pleasure in aggravating Pepper more than anyone else. And she leapt at every opportunity to nip back. It seemed to be their way.

Which Steve appreciated; it’s how very close friends communicated sometimes. Long ago, he and Bucky used insults as terms of endearment. His mother had been terribly scandalized when she overheard Steve once call Bucky a “fucking goon”. Bucky had stood behind her silently laughing until his face turned beet-red as Steve received a lecture on respecting his friends.

Steve had taken a swing at Bucky the moment they walked out the apartment door.

These days, Steve wasn’t sure when to fall back into old habits and when to tread lightly. Some moments, Bucky followed along and chimed in on an old story from Brooklyn, adding some detail or sarcastic comment that brightened the memory into a million colors and made it feel as if it’d happened yesterday. Other times, Steve saw the lines of confusion across Bucky’s face as Steve wrapped himself in old memories and tried to bring Bucky along with him. 

Bucky had sat down on the sofa, quietly, contentedly, sipping from the water bottle. With Tony and Pepper occupied at the evening’s event, Steve and Bucky would have the place to themselves. Steve had suggested they watch a movie that he and Bucky had made a special trip to see at the Kings Theater on Flatbush, back in 1938. Bucky agreed without hesitation, but if he recalled that time, he didn’t let on.

Steve picked up the remote and queued up ‘Boys Town’ with Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy.

“Another moldy oldy? Really?” Tony had come down the stairs and fixed himself a drink, despite Pepper’s protests about the time. “I hear movies have gone through this whole colorization phase. You should check that out.”

Pepper waved Tony off. “Ignore him. I think nostalgia is nice.

“Right,” Tony said, slowly. “It’s so nice. Tell me, did you spring the fifteen cents to see this in one of those over-crowded, smoke-filled, incubators for tuberculosis?”

Steve folded his arms across his chest. “No, we missed this release on account of standing in a bread line.” 

Tony clearly had something more he wanted to say, but Pepper grabbed his arm. “Tony, enough. The limo has probably run out of gas waiting on us.”

Steve gave Tony a nod. “I’m surprised you haven’t hooked that up to your arc-reactor.”

Tony’s grin spread wide across his face and he winked as Pepper dragged him into the elevator. “Give me time.”

The door closed and, for a moment, Steve simply appreciated the silence. With a shake of his head and a small smile for Tony’s antics, Steve sat down next to Bucky. 

Bucky glanced at him. “He knows your ma died of tuberculosis, right?”

Steve snorted a small laugh. “I’m sure he does, but that doesn’t stop him from saying something crass.”

Bucky looked away, drank from his bottle again, then added, “I almost spoke up, but then I remembered I likely killed his mother and father, so figured I’d be treading some awful thin ice.”

A wash of cold spilled down Steve’s body. He stared at Bucky, open-mouthed. How could he have missed that? How did he not realize that either Bucky or Tony might be uncomfortable together after they’d learned the details behind Hydra and their use of the Winter Soldier? 

Yet, Tony never said a word. Neither had Bucky. Until now.

Steve realized, suddenly, that he desperately wanted to touch Bucky--to comfort him, or himself, he wasn’t sure which--but should he? “Bucky--I--”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s true.” 

Steve continued to watch Bucky. He faced forward, seemingly calm, drinking from his water bottle. But he also clenched his jaw, pulsing his temple again and again. Just as Steve began to ask Bucky if he was all right, Bucky said, “Why don’t you start the movie.”

Steve swallowed away his question. “Yeah.”

Pepper had been right; it was nostalgia that drew Steve to these movies. They reflected a time that felt simultaneously distant and familiar. Not unlike a favorite, well-worn shirt, these movies clung to Steve’s shoulders, soft and warm. Steve hoped Bucky had the same experience. 

But by the time Father Flanagan was shoving mouthy Whitey down into his seat for a good talk, Bucky had his leg bouncing like a jackhammer. He’d shifted his hips or run his fingers through his hair more times than Steve could count. And Steve was pretty sure Bucky had stopped watching the movie several minutes ago.

He couldn’t ignore it any longer. “Buck.”

Bucky turned towards Steve, his brow knitted together and a hard line across his mouth that made him look ready to bolt. Or cry.

Steve didn’t know what made him say it, really. He’d meant to ask if Bucky wanted to talk, let out his tension with words. He’d meant to be an ear to bend. But instead Steve asked, “Why don’t I help you to relax again?”

The fold between Bucky’s brow grew deeper. “Really?”

Steve only nodded, stunned silent by his own suggestion. But it wasn’t that odd, was it? He hadn’t minded doing it before and it /had/ worked. Of course, that’s why he mentioned it now. Because it was the one thing--already tried and tested--that he knew would help.

And he’d enjoyed it, too. There was no harm in that, right?

Steve made himself smile, trying to look reassuring. He shifted a bit closer. “Yeah, really. You’ll feel better. You did before, didn’t you? And I don’t mind, if it helps you.”

Bucky nodded; he swallowed hard enough that Steve saw every flex of muscle in his jaw and neck. Yet he watched with a wariness that reminded Steve of those first weeks after they’d found him, when Bucky suspected every act, every move, might need to be fended off.

It made Steve lean away. “We don’t have to--”

“No.” Bucky cut him off quickly. “I want to. I could...use the distraction.”

The thought flitted through Steve’s mind, that Bucky needed to talk about it, eventually. He said so little yet there was no doubt that a lot--too much--banged around inside his head and he never let it free. He couldn’t ignore it forever.

But, if in this moment, distraction was what Bucky wanted, Steve was happy to provide it.

He shifted close so that he aligned with Bucky, their bodies touching at shoulder, hip and leg. Steve reached across, resting his hand on Bucky’s thigh. It felt like stone. Hard muscle, yes, but tension that threaded through his body like steel cables, holding him taut. Steve massaged Bucky’s thigh, easing them both into it.

But as Steve slid his hand across to the ties of Bucky’s running pants, Bucky said, “Steve--wait.”

Steve jerked his hand back and his heart started hammering. Had he been too forward? Too eager?

He looked up at Bucky. But instead of seeing any apprehension, Steve saw a small, crooked grin on Bucky’s face. “Maybe a different movie.”

Steve glanced at the screen and Spencer Tracy’s face, framed in a tight closeup as benevolent priest Father Flanagan gave one of his thoughtful speeches. Steve laughed softly. “Good point.” 

Picking up the remote, Steve clicked away from the movie and chose a music station featuring American standards, a channel Steve had memorized early, which played all the songs he and Bucky had listened to growing up.

When he turned back to Bucky, Steve already saw less tension in his face, and calmer breathing, as he watched Steve shift close again.

Unlike last time, Steve didn’t feel the need to explain anything, to calm his own nervousness with a spill of words. His anxiety felt good, exciting even, as he brushed over Bucky’s waistband and slipped his hand inside. When Steve touched bare skin underneath, something warm and pleasant curled low in his body. How often did Bucky traipse through Avenger’s Tower wearing nothing more under his clothes? Did he go bare beneath jeans? 

Steve said nothing to it, though. Instead he focused. He watched his own hand moving beneath the grey track-pants; he watched as he outlined Bucky’s growing erection.

Bucky let out a long, low sigh as Steve curled his fingers and gently stroked. As before, he went slow, careful, creating the build. He used the moisture from Bucky’s arousal to slick his motions.

And he ignored how tight his jeans had become.

Though he didn’t tell the story again--of the girl and Bucky sitting on Steve’s couch in Brooklyn--Steve couldn’t stop thinking of it. He kept picturing the look on Bucky’s face as she nestled between his spread legs, leaned up to take him in her mouth.

Bucky had the face of a man flooded with exaltation. Steve wanted that for him.

Steve let go long enough to push Bucky’s pants down--and Bucky obliged by lifting his hips--until he’d exposed Bucky from waist to thigh. His erection was at full force, darkened with blood and straining towards contact.

Steve’s breathing became ragged as he considered his next step. They were out in the open. Tony and Pepper could suddenly return, chasing a forgotten item and walking in on an unexpected sight. Natasha or Clint could stop by, completely unexpected, and find them like this. Shouldn’t he be terrified of that? 

But Steve rarely caved to fear. That gut-twisting sensation which rushed just under the skin, he’d ignored it more times than he’d ever heeded it. Instead he felt an adrenaline spike not unlike diving into a mission. Or taking a reckless jump from an airplane. Driving his motorcycle at top speed through darkened city streets.

Or leaning over his best-friend’s body and taking his dick into his mouth.

“Christ, Steve--”

The moment his tongue touched Bucky’s skin, Steve knew it was this he’d wanted all those years ago. He hadn’t fantasized that some nameless, random girl might suck his cock. His mouth had watered at the idea of bringing Bucky that pleasure with his own mouth. That he might kneel between Bucky’s spread knees. That he might draw his tongue up the length of his best friend’s arousal.

As he did now.

Bucky shuddered and gasped. But he didn’t say “stop” or “wait”. He laid his flesh hand on the back of Steve’s head and gently massaged it. Steve took it as encouragement.

Briefly, he thought, _“I can’t believe I’m doing this,”_ but he didn’t focus on that. The act itself came naturally. Because he’d watched it before, because he’d had it done to him, he knew what felt good, what he wanted to do.

Steve closed his eyes and gave himself over. Just as he had encouraged Bucky to relax and feel--not think--Steve told himself the same thing now: To feel the rough brush of Bucky’s hair against his nose, taste the musk and saltiness of his skin, listen to his husky whimpers and softly murmured, “God, Steve--” 

Shifting for leverage, Steve kept one hand at the root of Bucky’s erection and cupped his own through his jeans, squeezing lightly, rubbing to bring a greater spike of arousal to the moment. He used his tongue when he needed air and drew hard when he didn’t.

It also didn’t take long. Without much warning, beyond a slight keening edge to Bucky’s voice and a jerk of his hips, Steve tasted Bucky’s orgasm. The pulsations against his tongue gave him that same sense of satisfaction as before, that he caused this, that he’d helped Bucky feel pleasure in a life dominated by pain. Or numbness.

When he felt Bucky softening, Steve shifted away and sat up. He drew the back of his hand across his mouth and chin, still panting, still aroused. He took a moment to steady his voice, before asking, “Is that better?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately, but finally said, “Yeah.” His voice was still deep and dark, as his moans had been, and his cock lay spent against his thigh.

After another several haggard breaths, Bucky said, “Can I--” He paused to swallow. “I can return the favor.”

As he’d thought before, Steve didn’t want to burden Bucky--already with more troubles in his mind than any one man should have--with the obligation of Steve’s arousal. Or desire. Steve waved the offer away. “Naw, I’m fine. This was about you.”

Bucky looked at him then. He had pearls of sweat across his hairline and his brow was as furrowed as before. He looked as though he meant to say something more, his expression twisting as if troubled by a thought. Steve had certainly seen that before. Then Bucky suddenly hiked up his pants. “I’m really tired now, Steve.”

Steve’s gut tightened. He’d gone too far; he knew he had. “S-sure.”

“I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

It wasn’t until Bucky stood and strode away did Steve realize how badly he wished they’d touched again. Something simple, something small: a squeeze to his shoulder, a gentle kiss to the temple. A reassurance.

Or a deep, thorough kiss to his mouth.

“Fuck.”

Steve tore open his jeans, causing one of the buttons to pop free and skitter across the concrete flooring. He freed his still fully hard erection and using what remained of the moisture from Bucky’s body and spill, Steve stroked himself to completion, groaning low so that Bucky didn’t hear.

At least, he hoped.

After, Steve sagged against the couch, tired, spent and confused. ‘In The Mood’ played on the music channel, a swirling melody that recalled a smoke filled night too many years ago. Steve had sat in his usual corner at the dance hall, nursing a beer, watching Bucky dance to this song with a girl named Molly. She dressed nicer than anyone else in the room and had wide, pretty eyes. She lived in Manhattan and liked to slum it in Brooklyn at the dance halls; they’d met her more than once. That night she’d offered to take Bucky to the Harbour Club, to hear Glenn Miller play.

Bucky turned her down, much to Steve’s surprise. When he asked Bucky why, he’d shrugged and said, “I promised I’d walk home with you, didn’t I? I don’t break my promises. Certainly not to my best friend.”

Steve wondered if Bucky remembered that night, too.

Such friendship; it’d stood the test of more than just time: violence, betrayal, guilt, recovery. Had Steve ruined it all on a stupid whim? Had a long forgotten fantasy led him to be rash and take that friendship for granted?

“What am I doing?”

With a sigh, Steve stood and righted his jeans. He needed to back off and just be a friend for a while, like they were. As they should be.

What had started off as a vain attempt to fix everything had possibly ruined something good and pure.

“Get it together, Rogers,” he said to himself as he marched to his bedroom. Hopefully he could sleep tonight.

 

...tbc...


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that we've gone from a 5 part total, to 4 parts. Things are progressing faster than planned and Tony's original role as shit-stirrer took a back-seat. Hope you still enjoy!

~*~

Not since when he’d first awakened from the ice, had Steve felt so alone in a room filled with people. Though, back then, everywhere he looked, he saw unfamiliar faces in terrifically unfamiliar surroundings. 

Now, he was amongst friends. Should he still feel this alone? 

Natasha had come from Avenger’s Facility and dragged Clint away from the farm. Pepper’s flight to DC had been cancelled on account of bad weather. Sam would have been there, but the same weather that grounded Pepper kept Sam away. Tony schmoozed the room like a pro, encouraging everyone to have a drink or three.

And, of course, Bucky.

Steve watched Bucky navigate the room, talking briefly with Tony, then with Clint. Steve studied his every gesture, every twitch of his brow. Was he uncomfortable? Upset? Overwhelmed? 

Or should Steve stop overthinking everything? 

It’d been three days since the night he’d… Since they’d had the last encounter. He had so many worries, concerns, questions, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He watched his friends, watched Bucky, and said nothing.

He kept his solitude.

Combat was easier, in its way. Steve understood strategy the same way Tony could look at machinery, pick it apart and put it back together. It wasn’t strictly second nature, as Peggy had long ago said to him. Or only a product of his super serum. His interest in the military and the study of it had started back in Brooklyn after his public school history teacher had woefully explained World War I. Steve used the money he received from taking old papers to the trash man and bought books on war, the military and strategy. Bucky had been baffled: “She’s not testing us on this, why does it matter?”

Steve answered, “It matters. And some day, it’s really going to matter.”

Of course, he never anticipated being _that_ right.

But where the inner workings of battle and fighting flowed through Steve’s veins, understanding his own emotions and knowing how to manage someone else’s felt as foreign as listening to Tony and Bruce banter about microbiotic technology.

The news of Sam’s cancelled flight felt particularly untimely. Steve had hoped Sam could take Bucky aside, have a talk, make sure he was doing all right. The way Steve couldn’t. 

He also could have used a bit of guidance himself.

Steve took a drink of the beer Tony had shoved into his hand and sighed. He never should have done it. He never should have justified sneaking into Bucky’s room that first night and traipsing down this dangerous road. 

Yet he never wanted to forget how that felt. That first night, or the night in the lounge.

But it wasn’t fair to Bucky. Bucky’s whole world had been turned upside down more times than any of them could know. He had enough to learn and understand about himself; he didn’t deserve the burden of Steve’s attraction. For the sake of their friendship and of Bucky’s sanity, Steve knew he had to take a huge step back.

That only seemed to make things worse.

Bucky tried to act as if nothing was wrong. The morning after their last encounter, he stopped Steve at the elevator with a softly spoken, “Are you going for a run?”

Bucky stood in the center of the lounge area, dressed in track-pants and a sweatshirt. And running shoes Steve had bought him, but he rarely wore. At this hour, he usually could be found in the basement gym, working out in his barefeet. To see him in the shoes, scuffing his heel against the concrete floor, Steve realized he might be looking for an invitation.

“Yeah,” Steve had said. “Are you--do you want to join me?”

They’d never gone for a run together. Steve either did that alone, or with Sam, when they managed to be in the same place at the same time.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to work out knotted muscle at the top of his spine. By the tight expression and frown on Bucky’s face, Steve had half expected the answer to be, “Hell no.” But Bucky shrugged and said, “Sure,” still massaging hard at his nape.

Bucky hadn’t gone farther than a block from Avenger’s Tower since he arrived.

For all the initial uncertainty, the run had been very companionable, if silent. What made it unique was that Bucky could keep up with him, which, of course, no one else ever could. It brought out Steve’s competitive spirit. The faster he ran, the harder Bucky strove to match his pace. They sped past joggers like a hurricane had landed in Central Park for a second and then was gone.

At the end, they laughed together, winded, resting against a large oak. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d run so hard he had to pause to breathe.

Then Bucky did exactly what Steve wanted him to do: he came close and grabbed Steve by the shoulder, squeezing with his metal hand, which felt good and cool against Steve’s over-heated skin. 

Steve pulled away.

It was too much, too soon. Too close. It wasn’t the intimacy he desired and, God, he wanted that so much. But at what cost? 

He tried to laugh it off, shifting away, saying they should head back to the tower. But Bucky lagged. He’d sensed the change and Steve wasn’t sure how to fix that.

How was he going to fix this?

Even now, he kept his distance, lingering in the kitchen area, away from the others. Bucky and Natasha sat next to each other on the couch, conversing in Russian, as Clint tried to figure out what they were saying by picking apart the context with the few Russian words he knew.

Steve took another drink of beer. He shouldn’t be standing at the kitchen counter staring, watching Bucky like some lovesick school kid. It wasn’t helping his struggle. But he couldn’t look away for long. Bucky’s voice would rise above the din, or his sharp bark of a laugh would tease Steve’s ears, and he’d have to look for him. He’d have to see him smile.

The last time Steve felt this way was when he’d met Peggy Carter. From the moment he’d watched her throw a punch that sent Private Hodge to the dirt, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.

Did he honestly think he felt that same way about Bucky? Wasn’t that a stretch? He cared so much for Bucky, felt committed to his recovery. But this attraction, this desire, had to be simply physical, a hormonally driven need, made complicated by a long and close friendship. 

Wasn’t it?

“What’s wrong?”

Steve hadn’t even realized Tony stood so near. He should have at least caught whiff of expensive cologne, if nothing else. 

He stepped back from the counter; he tried to look more casual than he felt. “Huh? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” 

Tony raised one eyebrow. “Uh-huh.” He then turned and stood next to Steve, taking a swig from his own beer. Steve had no doubt he followed his gaze and settled on watching Bucky with him. 

As if to confirm it, he said, “He seems more relaxed.”

Steve took another drink of the beer--not for the first or last time wishing he could become intoxicated, even just a little. Enough to distract him. “He is,” he answered. “I think. I hope.”

“Think he was able to…?” Tony put his fist to his crotch and made a pumping gesture. Heat rose from Steve’s gut to his ears, the very detailed memory of sucking Bucky’s dick still fresh in his mind. 

He swatted at Tony’s hand to make him stop. Did they really have to discuss that here? Now? “What--I don’t--Didn’t I tell you to stay out of it?”

“No, you told me not to solicit Natasha.” Tony shrugged. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Consider it the same thing.”

“I’m just trying to help. He is a guest in my home. I like to feel my guests’ needs are being attended to. It’s what makes me a good host.” Tony then made a twirling gesture with his fingers. “That, and the snazzy surroundings. People are drawn to the snazzy surroundings.”

Steve gave Tony a side-long glance. It was hard to tell, sometimes, when Tony’s words were a product of idle, pointless chatter, or when he had a deeper underlying message. Few things were ever straight-forward with Tony and Steve still hadn’t completely figured him out. “I appreciate the sentiment,” Steve said, adding: “I’m sure Bucky does, too. But you don’t have to see to every need.”

Tony slowly nodded. “As long as his needs are being seen to.”

Steve turned to face Tony. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tony put his hands up, a surrender, and took a step back. He had a slight, crooked grin on his face. “Nothing, not a thing. I think Pepper’s calling my name.” Tony lifted his bottle towards Steve, like a toast, and then turned away. But before he reached the couches, he turned back around. “Oh, by the way Cap.” 

With an overhand toss, Tony pitched something small towards Steve. Steve caught it in one hand and looked down at his palm.

He held the silver button from his jeans.

Steve sagged against the kitchen counter. “Dammit.” So much for no one suspecting.

~*~

The rest of night couldn’t have gone smoother. Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been worried about. That Tony might make a scene, asking Steve in front of their group how he’d managed to tear a button off his jeans in the common area? No one would have missed the implication--certainly not coming from Tony. And would that have embarrassed Bucky? Would Steve have been able to explain it away without Natasha pointing out that on-the-spot lying wasn’t his strong suit?

But Tony never said another word on the matter. In fact, he mostly spent the night trying to convince Clint to bring Laura to New York and Avenger’s Tower. Clint wouldn’t be moved. He had every intention of keeping his two worlds completely separate and laughed at each attempt Tony made to convince him otherwise.

Sam visited the party briefly, via Skype, telling the funny story of his unsuccessful attempt to make the trip from DC to New York, and how he even considered donning his wings and traveling al-fresco--until he pictured himself being struck by lightning over the Eastern Seaboard and decided not to risk it. He had everyone laughing; even Bucky cracked a smile.

Though, just as Sam finished up, Steve mocked a thoughtful expression and said, “Yeah, but don’t you always leave your wings up at Avenger’s Facility?”

Sam’s expression fell. “Man, don’t ruin the story. You’re killing me, here.” 

When the weather cleared, the party broke apart. Pepper left first, using the corporate jet to take her to DC as originally planned. Natasha had promised Clint she’d get him back to the farm for some early morning work. Steve was glad she planned to stay there a few days before heading upstate. She seemed to still need the distraction of Clint’s family.

As for Bucky, he stayed mostly quiet through the evening, laughing when appropriate, talking quietly with Natasha, as he clearly liked to do. But what Steve noticed the most was that he stayed until the party ended. He’d never done that before. He usually excused himself at one hour and thirty minutes after the third guest arrived. Steve could set his watch by him. He’d once even counted down to Bucky’s exact moment of withdrawal, whispering the seconds to Sam to prove the point.

But this time he stayed. He did seem better, more relaxed--as Tony had pointed out. So did that mean Steve hadn’t ruined everything by doing what he did? Twice?

As everyone dispersed, Bucky escaped to the gym. Steve figured he probably had some nervous energy to burn off. He’d said before that all the conversation, the constant interaction, put him on edge and he could only handle so much before the idea of crawling out of his skin felt like the next logical step.

Going to the gym was a much better next step.

Steve said his goodnights--avoided Tony, who appeared to be watching him a little more intently--and followed Bucky to the basement gym. Or 10th floor, however you looked at it.

By the time Steve arrived, Bucky had already changed into a tank-top and sweats that he’d cut off at the knee. His black jeans and dress shirt lay crumpled by the bench, and he was going strong, landing punch after punch on one of the heavy bags.

Steve watched him.

He’d never considered before how good the male body could look. He always saw it as something practical, like an efficient machine, when well trained. But seeing the cotton of Bucky’s tank grip his stomach and outline each muscle group, there was beauty there, like sculptured art.

Or the round and sharp of his hips, the edges that dipped into his sweats, leading to something else entirely. Steve cleared his throat as much to distract his wandering thoughts as to garner Bucky’s attention.

Bucky stopped punching and turned. He tipped his head slightly to the side, as if surprised to see Steve standing there.

Of course, Steve realized he probably should say something,to have a point for the interruption.

“Do--um, do you want me to wrap your hand? The one that _is_ only skin and bone?” Steve looked at his own hands and the scars he should have, but didn’t, from hitting the bag too much, too often, when he first came out of the ice. “I know the damage doesn’t last, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to avoid the pain, however temporary.” He grinned. “I speak from experience.”

There were a few beats of time as Bucky stared back with a flat expression that still wasn’t familiar to Steve, that didn’t harken back to any face he’d seen on Bucky in their lives, before Bucky shrugged and said, “Sure.”

He then twisted around to grab a roll of tape from a nearby bin and pitched it to Steve, all in a smooth, fluid motion. Steve caught the tape and swung his leg over the bench, straddling it. Bucky as he did the same, so that they faced each other.

Steve took Bucky’s hand and turned it, palm up. Unlike Steve, Bucky had scars; Steve traced his finger over one that ran from his thumb to his wrist. Probably a long-ago knife cut. That was one way the serum--or whatever experimentation Zola had done to Bucky--differed from Steve’s. Though the accelerated healing was the same; he’d already witnessed that, after Bucky first arrived in the tower. When recovery meant fighting through a frozen mind, sometimes with their fists.

Those may have been the most difficult months of Steve’s life. Which, he had to admit, said a lot.

Bucky waited, silent, patient, for Steve to start taping. If he thought anything of Steve’s momentary lapse, studying Bucky’s hand, he said nothing.

Steve mentally shook away his morose thoughts and refocused. He looped the tape around Bucky’s thumb, then his wrist, and continued with the intricate wrapping.

“You taught me this. Do you remember?”

“No.” Bucky said it softly, hushed. 

Steve kept his head down, focused on wrapping Bucky’s hand. He knew he was doing it slower than needed and hoped Bucky didn’t mind.

“It was right after Pearl Harbor,” he said, as he twisted the tape around Bucky’s wrist again. “I wanted to enlist in the worst way. You knew it was hopeless, considering how I was back then. Small, frail, ill. But you helped me train to pass the physical just the same. Took me into the ring at the gym--”

“Goldie’s,” Bucky interjected. They’d talked about the gym before, many times, and Tony had listened and designed the basement gym based on their memories.

“--that’s right. And what did you do?” Steve chuckled, remembering. “You padded me up, ready for my first spar, and then cold-cocked me on the first swing.”

“Did I?”

Steve looked up at Bucky’s surprised tone. His eyes were wide; he really didn’t remember. But Steve smiled and shrugged. “I think you were trying to scare me. It didn’t work.”

Bucky let out a long sigh, his face relaxing into that crooked look, one brow raised, his lips slightly curled. It was the face Steve always saw in his memories. “Nothing has ever scared you, Steve.”

At those words, Steve’s smile faded and a mantle of seriousness fell over him. Oh, he’d been scared. Maybe not as others had; maybe not as often. But he’d been scared when he dove the Valkyrie into the ocean. He’d been scared when he woke to an unfamiliar world. He’d been scared when he saw, for the first time, that The Winter Soldier had a too familiar face. And he was terrified of the feelings that same face inspired in him now.

He swallowed hard. “That’s not true.”

Bucky’s expression twisted, his brow creasing with worry, or confusion--Steve wasn’t sure which just then, but he knew he was spoiling a perfectly nice moment. He forced a smile and shook his head. 

“Anyway, after a good douse of cold water and at my insistence, we trained for about three weeks. I showed up to my first enlistment attempt covered in bruises. I’m sure that really convinced them to 4F me, if the rest of the evidence wasn’t enough.”

“I beat you up?”

“You were training me, Buck. You didn’t hurt me, not really.”

Bucky let out a soft huff. “Maybe that’s why I don’t remember that. I wouldn’t want to think about busting you up.”

Steve frowned. He should have backed down the moment he realized Bucky didn’t remember. Sometimes telling him the story, hoping it might bring the memory back for him, only conjured a dark edge to his mood. “Listen--”

“As it is--” Bucky shook Steve’s hand away, cutting him off. He reached forward to touch Steve’s stomach. Steve inhaled, not expecting the touch. But he knew what Bucky was doing. He was feeling that spot where he’d shot him through the stomach. “--it seems wrong that I can’t see the damage I caused.”

Steve put his hand over Bucky’s, holding his fingers against his abdomen. “Why? So you can mentally punish yourself every time you see it?”

Bucky looked up and had such a sad attempt at a smile, it spilled guilt like an upturned bottle.

Steve pulled Bucky’s hand away from his stomach and turned it back around to finish wrapping. “Then I’m even more glad I heal without scars. Because I won’t have you looking at me with guilt.”

“You look at me with guilt.”

Steve jerked his head up, eyes wide. Almost immediately, Bucky shook his head, saying, “Nevermind.” The wrapping finished, he drew his hand away and stood. He added a mumbled, “Thanks,” as he strode back to the bag.

Steve stood, too. Should he ask what Bucky meant? Did he think Steve still felt guilty about Bucky’s capture by Hydra? Because he did. Or was he responding to how things were now? Convoluted and uncertain?

Steve wanted to speak, to say something--anything! This would be the time, his first real chance, to bring it out into the open. They’d never discussed it, what Steve had done. And there was safety in that. It was just an act. It didn’t have to mean anything.

So why did it feel like it meant everything?

“Bucky?”

Bucky stopped punching. Though hadn’t really started, not like he could, not hitting the bag with the force Steve knew only too well. He held the bag steady and gave Steve his attention, his chin raised, silent.

But the words wouldn’t come. All Steve’s worries, all of his wonderings died on his tongue. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and jammed his thumb over his shoulder. “I guess I’ll head back upstairs.” 

Bucky nodded. “Alright.”

Steve twisted away, but before he could push the button for the elevator, Bucky said, “Unless--”

Steve turned back around to see Bucky shrug and tip his head towards the ring. “--you want to spar. We haven’t. In a while.”

Steve smiled. They hasn’t practiced together in over a month and he missed it. Missed the camaraderie, the competitive grins when one of them landed a good hit, missed the pure physical rush, the adrenaline, the closeness…

His smile wavered. He’d been avoiding contact, trying not to encourage his growing sexual thoughts about Bucky. Would it be too close? Too much? 

Bucky shrugged again. “You know, it’s late, it’s OK, you don’t have to.” He was giving Steve an out, an excuse. Which panged deeply for Steve. How much did Bucky notice Steve’s avoidance? He didn’t want Bucky thinking he couldn’t depend on Steve. That was the whole point to all of this: that Steve would do anything for him.

“No, let’s,” Steve said, waving off the excuse. “It’ll be good. Can’t have you losing your edge.”

Bucky’s brow shot up. “My edge? I spend more time down here than you--what does Sam call you? Running man?”

Steve turned to his own locker and began changing out of his dress shirt and slacks. He always kept spare shirts and track-pants in the gym. “Running is excellent exercise, good for endurance.”

“Running is a waste of time.”

Steve faced Bucky again as he tugged his t-shirt into place. “You didn’t seem to mind it the other morning.”

Bucky looked at him for a moment, with his usual flat, unreadable expression. Then he shrugged as he crossed towards the ring. “That’s cuz I was with you.” He said it softly, almost under his breath.

Steve paused again, running his hands over his t-shirt, smoothing it down. Bucky didn’t speak much, but it seemed when he did, he said something that left Steve speechless. Sometimes the comments were self-depreciating and Steve knew he couldn’t fix everything with simple words so he didn’t always try. Other times, they left Steve teetering on the edge of his own emotions.

Swallowing hard and pushing aside the swell of thoughts, Steve followed Bucky into the ring. He ducked under the ropes, then immediately landed backwards. Bucky knocked him back with a hit to his chin!

Rubbing his chin, Steve righted himself. “You didn’t even let me make it in.” Steve narrowed his gaze and grinned. “Aren’t there rules for that sort of thing?”

Bucky stood in the center of the ring, split stance, his fists up. “Who said anything about rules?”

Steve jumped back as Bucky took another swing, an attempt at a left hook. But Steve caught his arm and twisted it behind his back, belatedly realizing, he’d grabbed his metal arm and even Steve couldn’t keep ahold of that. Bucky let out a small growl, bent forward and wrenched his arm around, taking Steve off his feet and into the air. Steve tumbled over Bucky’s back and landed upright, ready for Bucky’s next onslaught.

Back in Brooklyn, Bucky never fought like this. It was in these moments when Steve remembered battling the Winter Soldier, the constant charge, one maneuver after another where you could barely keep up. 

But, at the same time, having fought a mindless assassin, Steve knew the differences, too. The lighter hit, the two breaths before another attack. Hardly a delay for some, but enough for Steve and Bucky. 

Steve laughed as one hit landed and another missed. Bucky didn’t stay silent, but he didn’t laugh. He growled and grinned, in a twisted, manic way, but his eyes were bright and stayed fully aware.

In those early days, these sparring sessions were tricky. Bucky could easily lose himself to the training and flip from friend to foe so fast, Steve could barely scramble from the ring without at least some injury.

His exit always managed to wake Bucky up, but that wasn’t a simple transition either. He’d stand in the center of the ring, staring at Steve, coming back to himself with a wave of emotion that crashed into them both. Steve, helpless, would watch him tremble as he sank to his knees and start to sob. Steve would hurry back into the ring to hold him, help him ride through the pain. 

They’d been through so much and for all Bucky’s strength, he was still fragile. Steve had to know he was doing the right thing.

On a slew of well timed strikes, Steve pursued Bucky until they hit the corner of the ring. Bucky grunted as Steve pinned him hard, bodily, against the ropes, wrestling for leverage. He pressed up against Bucky, meaning to force him down to the mat. But when he wedged his thigh between Bucky’s legs, he felt the hardness of Bucky’s erection.

Steve drew in a sharp breath. The vision of Bucky aroused and in his own hands flooded his mind; he stilled, pressed up against him.

Bucky took advantage and shoved forward. Losing his footing, Steve tumbled backwards, taking Bucky with him. They crashed against the mat, Bucky pinning him to the floor.

It wasn’t a position Steve expected to be in, lying with Bucky prone over him, their legs tangled together. They stared as if seeing each other for the first time. Then Bucky rocked his hips, a small rut of his groin against Steve’s.

Steve dropped his head back against the mat, closing his eyes. Damn, that felt too good. Far too good.

Bucky moved again, another small thrust, but careful, like testing water that could be too cold.

Or too hot.

Steve’s arousal grew fast, matching the hardness he felt against his inner thigh. Bucky rolled his hips again and Steve moaned.

They were treading dangerous waters. Steve had only an hour ago decided that friends didn’t do this. That their friendship was more than sexual gratification.

Steve words, edged with his panic, spilled out: “I’m not sure what’s happening right now.”

Steve opened his eyes and looked up at Bucky. His expression, usually so flat and unreadable, was as open as Steve had ever seen it. His eyes widened and his brow knitted together with such confusion, Steve knew immediately he’d said the worst possible thing.

Like a flash, Bucky was off him and vaulting the ropes. For someone who claimed to hate running, he didn’t lack the ability. 

Steve climbed up to his knees only to see the blur of Bucky at the stairwell, the door slamming shut behind him.

Steve sank down and rubbed his hand over his face, his body still achingly aroused.

“Goddammit.”

 

...tbc...


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [Becca Abbott](http://becca.slashcity.net/site/index.php) for being such an awesome and supportive beta through all of this!

~*~

Steve jogged into the common area and slowed to a stop. He hadn’t waited long before pursuing Bucky from the gym and darting up the stairs. He expected to find the lounge room vacated, everyone having left at least an hour ago, but he found Tony sitting alone on the couch, a drink in his hand. Tony looked up when Steve entered and a broad, toothy grin split across his face. He lifted his glass towards Steve.

“Well done,” he said.

Steve clenched his jaw. The last thing he needed was mocking commentary about his personal life from a self-proclaimed playboy. “This really isn’t any of your business.”

Tony nodded. “True. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion about it.”

Steve tapped his fingers against his legs, then shoved his hands into his pants’ pocket to keep from fidgeting. Why was Tony even concerning himself? “Well, you can keep that to yourself. Do you know where he went?”

“Do you mean, did I see a blur of half dressed brunette with a glimmer of metal race through here?” Tony took a sip of his drink. “Perhaps.”

“Tony--”

Tony crossed his legs and tipped his head to one side, still smiling in a way that made Steve want to use his fists against something hard, but yielding. Then Tony leaned back and twirled his glass, the whisky spinning inside and glinting when it caught the light. “It’s funny, really, when you think about it,” he said. “Our fearless leader, the peak echelon of soldiering, and I’ve never seen him more afraid.”

Steve’s gut pitched down so fast, a wave of nausea washed through him. “Afraid?”

Tony raised one brow and gave Steve a look that said, “Do you think I’m stupid,” without the words.

Steve’s first instinct was to shout. It wasn’t Tony’s concern and he’d been meddling, one way or another, for weeks! They’d already discussed Bucky’s problem twice--which was two times too many already!

Oh. Steve let out a sigh and his shoulders relaxed. Tony knew the whole story--well, almost. But he had been paying attention from the start. Why stall further, waiting to discuss this entirely with Sam, when Tony had the entire background? 

Of course, Steve had waited this long for advice anyway, blundering his way through everything. And now he’d completely unraveled Bucky. He might not have any choice but to talk with Tony.

Tony seemed to hear Steve’s thoughts. “Listen,” he said, “I know all about avoiding feelings. I’ve made a lifestyle of it. But I’ve also lived through the consequences. You think Pepper and I are just friends again because I was so good at the relationship?”

Steve raised one brow. “So that makes you an expert on advice?”

Tony shrugged. “It makes me an expert on what you shouldn’t do. I am definitely an expert of that.” Tony uncrossed his legs, set his glass of whiskey on the coffee table, then patted the cushion beside him. “C’mon, tell daddy all about it.”

Steve frowned. “Never say those words again.”

“C’mon,” Tony said again, this time with a roll of his eyes.

Steve couldn’t believe this was his best option, getting relationship advice from Tony Stark, of all people. But he’d done such a fantastic job of keeping everyone else at arm’s length--including Bucky--he’d backed himself into this corner. 

However, the moment Steve sat beside Tony, he immediately wanted to give up on the whole thing with Tony’s first words: “So when did you start fucking?”

Steve felt his face flush to a burning red. “We’re not--! Dammit.” He looked away from Tony, shaking his head. This was a mistake.

Tony chuckled. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Steve turned back and glared. “Do you think sex solves everything?”

With a soft snort, Tony said, “I think it should.”

Steve shook his head again. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He wanted to bolt, but where? To his room and continue to hide from this disaster he’d created? With a sigh, he said, “The problem is I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Are you... _bad_ at sex?”

“No! Dammit, Tony, it’s not like that!” Steve shot up. He probably should have just called Sam from the start. He waved off Tony and his sarcastic attempt at help. “Forget this.”

“So tell me--” Tony yelled at him as he strode towards his bedroom. “You didn’t pop the button on your jeans because of a hard-on?”

Steve stopped. That deep, stomach sinking feeling washed over him again. He slowly turned and looked at Tony with likely the guiltiest look he ever had on his face--at least since that time Peggy caught him kissing the WAC at SSR’s London headquarters.

Tony nodded once. “So you did.”

“Yes.”

Tony made the face again, speaking disbelief without the words. “But this isn’t about sex.”

With a sigh, Steve slowly walked back towards the couch. “I wanted to help him...feel better.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me to ask Natasha to offer up her services, you were keeping him all to yourself.” 

Tony said the last bit in a little sing-song tone as Steve sat down again. Steve didn’t have an answer for that, either, because that’s exactly what he’d done. He didn’t want anyone else taking care of Bucky that way. Of course, he’d justified it that he didn’t trust anyone else, but could he really claim that now? With the memory of jerking off to Bucky receiving a blow-job, his desires had run far deeper than he’d ever known. He gave Tony another guilty look.

Tony laughed, smacking Steve’s thigh in the process. “Wow, you really were. So, let me get this straight--ha! Wait. Wrong word. You care about your amnesic assassin a-hella-lot, right?”

“Of course! Right now, he’s…” Steve faltered on the truth of his words. He was stunned by his own emotions, the way his heart and breath quickened at the mention of Bucky. “He’s the only thing I can think about.”

“Right,” Tony said. “And you’ve, what? Given him a hand-job?”

Steve nodded, then, quietly added: “And...I sucked him off.”

Tony’s eyes went wide. “You blew him!?”

“Tony!”

Tony’s laugh echoed in the massive room. “I’m so impressed! Captain America, giving head.”

Steve sagged forward and put his face in his hands. He never had conversations like this--not ever! Even he and Bucky never talked this plainly back in Brooklyn. “Please…”

“Did you like it?”

The gentle tone that Tony used when he asked the question--a complete and sudden change from only a moment ago--made Steve jerk his head up. “Huh?”

Tony looked at Steve dead-on, right into his eyes. “Is the hard-on you got from giving your lost puppy assassin head the reason why I found your jeans button in the lounge?”

Steve hesitated, but then answered, “Yes.”

“On your own, did you jerk off thinking about him?”

Everything about their exchange had changed. Tony leaned close and talked softer, the usual sarcastic tone abandoned. Steve nodded.

“And it doesn’t bother you that he’s a guy?” Tony spread his hands, quickly adding: “I mean, I don’t care, but last I knew, there was only one woman in your heart.”

Steve looked away. It was true that, up until these last few weeks, he never had considered anyone other than Peggy as being important to him, in that way. But he hadn’t exactly had much chance to think about it before now--between war, his deep sleep and his subsequent battles for Avengers and Shield. Bucky had always been beyond important; he’d been family. He’d been as close to Steve as a person could get. There were many times in Steve’s life when he didn’t know where he ended and Bucky began. To touch him never once felt wrong.

Steve shrugged. “I know a lot of people think it should bother me. But it felt so completely organic, natural, I never questioned it.”

“Ok,” Tony said; he leaned back and steepled his fingers. “So he turns you on and you care about him a lot. Am I on track here?”

Steve couldn’t say no, but wasn’t Tony oversimplifying? “It’s more complicated than that.”

Tony raised his brow. “Is it?”

The uncertainty and discomfort he’d been struggling with came rushing back. Steve pushed his fingers through his hair and stood. “He’s got enough to deal with, between recovery and his memory-loss and his past--” Steve shook his head and paced away from, and then back to the couch again. “I’m trying not to burden him with my...feelings, this attraction.”

Tony didn’t speak for several seconds; he pressed his steepled fingers against his lips and seemed to watch Steve the same way he looked at one of his virtual blueprints: intense, his gaze narrowed. His silence started to unnerve Steve further; he tapped his fingers against his legs again. 

Then Tony spread his hands and bowed his head. “Ok, listen. He’s on the balcony. Just go and say exactly what you’re thinking. Not what you have decided he needs to hear.” Then Tony looked up and gave Steve that same serious stare as before. “Pepper once told me, no one is ever harmed by being loved, they’re harmed when that love is withheld from them. And that’s what I’m good at.” Tony paused, swallowed, then softly added, “So don’t do what I do.”

Steve felt suddenly very aware of his own breathing. He stared back at Tony. Hearing something remarkable and vulnerable from a man who spent most of his time drawing useless attention to himself had a profound effect. “Is it really that simple?” Steve asked, hushed.

Tony shrugged, then leaned forward to pick up his glass of liquor again. “That’s what they tell me.”

Steve looked to the door which would lead him to where Bucky waited. He had to speak this time, had to say exactly what was on his mind. He had to go against all instinct to protect and take the hit alone. That’s what he knew; that’s what he’d always done.

Even in his love life.

Yet, despite this, Bucky still became collateral damage. That had never been Steve’s intent.

“Thanks,” he said, softly, as the walked towards the door.

“Just don’t fuck it up.”

Steve stopped and stared at Tony a moment. One second he was compassionate, thoughtful and giving Steve the advice he needed and never expected from this source. But then, in the blink of an eye, he was sipping liquor again and had a crass comment by way of encouragement.

That seemed to be Tony’s way. Just as when he’d let Steve know Bucky needed him by making a boorish remark, he accomplished exactly what needed to be done with words that could cut if you believed he meant them to hurt.

But he didn’t.

“Got it,” Steve said, and then he headed up the stairwell that reached the balcony terrace.

Bucky stood just as Steve had found him weeks ago, his arms resting against the balustrade, looking out over the city. The balcony lights cast shadows over him, though, and Steve saw the tight line across his shoulders.

It was cold in the night air, especially up this high. The wind whipping around them, tossing Steve’s hair and making Bucky’s flutter along his nape. They’d each known such coldness in their lives, it did suddenly seem ridiculous that Steve should be denying them both warmth.

“Buck?”

Bucky turned. He still wore his tank top and shorts, and his flesh hand was still wrapped with tape. His face was lined with emotion, not the flat unreadable expression that Steve had almost come to expect from him. But this wasn’t a familiar expression either.

Bucky sounded tired as he said, “I don’t need your kind of help right now, Steve.”

Steve shivered, but it wasn’t for the cold. “Are you--if you want to talk, or--”

“Or what?” Bucky bit out the words, as if daring Steve to answer. Steve felt like his throat had closed; he couldn’t even swallow. He’d seen Bucky’s anger before--even directed at him--but that’d felt far less personal. That had been the defensive exterior of the Winter Soldier breaking way. This was anger Steve deserved.

Bucky turned away to stare out over the city again. After another moment of silence, he said, “I don’t know what’s happening, either, you know.” 

Steve sighed. “I know.”

Bucky spun back around, his face lined with his confusion. “Do you? Because just when I think I’ve figured something out, you make me question it. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.”

Steve shook his head. “You’re not doing anything wrong. I am.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He stared at Steve, then turned back to the cityscape, his arms folded against the railing.

Steve sagged. Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Yes, he knew they needed to talk, but he felt stunted by his own emotions and Bucky was so upset. “Maybe I should go.”

Bucky didn’t speak. But Steve thought he noticed his breathing had become quicker. The wind wind whipped his hair across his face and he didn’t flinch, resolutely staring out over the city.

Steve waited, but the silence only made everything inside him sink down to the tiled balcony floor. He scuffed his feet, not to warn Bucky of his presence, as he so often did, but out of his own unease.

What if he couldn’t fix this?

Bucky didn’t move, and Steve felt unsteady, as if he’d suddenly lost all the serum effects and he might be blown over by the wind. Was this it? Had he blundered so terribly with Bucky’s emotions and his own that this was already ending? Right now, before it’d ever properly began? 

How could he have been such a fool?

“I guess I’ll go,” Steve said, swallowing back the thickness in his throat, the threat of tears.

But as his fingers brushed the stairwell door handle, Bucky yelled: “I can’t--I can’t figure out if I’m too close or too far away to make this right!”

Steve spun around. Bucky stood a few paces closer, facing Steve. The tension in his body reminded Steve of those early months when his memory was as fragmented as shattered glass and he didn’t know who to trust.

Steve supposed that wasn’t surprising; he hadn’t exactly been building a foundation to trust, lately. “That’s--I understand. I’ve been thinking the same thing. The exact same thing.”

Bucky’s face twisted with such confusion. “Did I do wrong when I asked you to stay in my bed that night?”

“No!” Steve jerked his hand up, wishing he could wipe away Bucky’s confusion with a simple touch. “Not if that’s what you needed.”

“Because that’s all you’re doing, providing a service?”

Steve slowly lowered his arm. It’s not that he was surprised by Bucky’s anger and confusion, but it gave him such sadness. “I just wanted to help you, Bucky.”

Then tension along Bucky’s arms seemed to break and he sagged. He shook his head and looked away. “I realize that I’ve been away from normal society for a while, but is that what friends do these days?” When he looked back, Steve could see the old, cocky Bucky of years ago, but edged with anger. “Give hand-jobs like a favor? Blow jobs?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. Bucky had struck exactly to the core of it. Steve had touched Bucky that first night because he’d been drawn to him, tied to an attraction he’d ignored for so long he couldn’t even recognize it as such anymore. He’d told himself it was an act of friendship, but it had never been that alone.

Steve hesitated. “I--I don’t--”

Bucky let out a humourless laugh, cutting Steve off. “Because, back in Brooklyn, if it had been you instead of that girl, head at my crotch, I would have dragged you into bed and fucked you.”

For a moment, Steve thought the wind might have knocked him over. He shifted, widening his stance to steady himself. A shiver raced through his body. “Bucky…”

Bucky shrugged and looked away again. “I remember that much, at least.” Bucky scuffed his barefeet against the tile, looking so much then of the young, handsome James Buchanan Barnes of Brooklyn, who charmed all the girls and wasted his time with a skinny kid he’d met on the playground. 

“Back then,” Bucky continued, “I was far too scared of those thoughts to share them. I hid it all, behind drinks and girls and….the war. I did a lot of hiding.” Then he looked up at Steve. “But then when you came to me that night…”

Bucky’s voice trailed off and Steve shook his head, realizing even more how much he’d complicated things. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s expression twisted again. “Are you? I think that’s what I need to know. Because if you are, then…” He swallowed, then shook his head. “Then I need to be some place else.” 

Fear flushed like cold water through Steve’s veins. “No, Bucky, please. I am sorry, but not for-- I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself.”

Bucky spread his arms. “Then what’s happening here?”

The words caught on Steve’s tongue. How should he explain himself? That he felt attracted? That he desired him? Didn’t that seem trite? God, should he admit--to himself and everyone--that he was in love with Bucky?

Because, in that moment, he knew that was the truth.

But Bucky only became more agitated with Steve’s delay. He turned and paced away, then back towards Steve again. His temple pulsed as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“This isn’t easy for me,” Bucky said. “I haven’t spoken my mind in….” He slowed, frowning, and glanced away in thought.

“In 75 years,” Steve supplied. He knew all too well how long it’d been since they’d been parted.

Bucky sighed. “In 75 years. I tried to pretend like everything was OK because I thought that’s what you wanted. But it’s not OK.”

Steve nodded. “You’re right. It’s not.”

“I can’t put up with this--” he hesitated with the words, then said, “This uncertainty anymore!” Bucky paced again, words spilling from him like a broken dam. “You’re right next to me, touching me, but you don’t let me touch back. You keep me at an arm’s length. You’re here, but you’re so far away! I can’t take it. So.” He stopped and faced Steve. “We need to make a decision.”

Steve waited, giving Bucky the time and space to say exactly what he needed, let out everything he’d built up inside. Bucky’s chest heaved with his deep breaths, fueled by his emotions. The wind blew his hair across his face, but he only stared at Steve. Then he said, “Either you never touch me like that again….” The pause that followed made Steve’s stomach drop.

“Or,” Bucky continued, “you never stop.”

For a second, the entire tower tilted to one side, making Steve feel he might topple over. When the world righted itself, his answer came easy because it was the truest thing he’d said in weeks.

“I don’t think I can stop.”

Bucky clenched his jaw and nodded, his breathing coming even faster. “Well, good, because I don’t want you to.”

It felt like a magnetic force, as if something beyond his own body made him move forward. Steve took one step, then another, moving faster until he reached Bucky. Their bodies collided as if back in the ring, ready to spar, but they grappled into a hug, holding each other tight.

“You’re such a jerk!” Bucky said, huffed out like a sob, yet still soft against Steve’s ear. Steve laughed and held Bucky tighter. How good it felt! Relief fell over him like water from a shower, washing away weeks’ worth of tension and fear.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, his eyes stinging. “I’m sorry I took so long to realize--I didn’t know, I didn’t think--” He closed his eyes and smiled; he buried his face in Bucky’s hair and breathed deeply of him.

“I didn’t know _what_ you were thinking,” Bucky said, his lips against Steve’s hair.

Steve carefully drew back so he could look at Bucky’s face. The lines of confusion and anger had smoothed away; the emotion now could be found in his eyes, wide and blue and beautiful. Steve smiled. “I was thinking how much I wanted to do this.”

He cupped Bucky’s jaw and drew him close. The touch of his lips curled like warmth in Steve’s body. Then Bucky sighed, parting his lips, and warmth turned to heat as their mouths melded together. Steve slid his fingers along Bucky’s cheek and threaded his fingers into his hair.

Then Bucky moaned.

Suddenly, it was as if they were back in the ring again, grappling together. All the pent-up emotions and desire, every feeling of need and want crashed against them. Steve kissed deeper, matching Bucky’s moan with one of his own. Bucky fisted Steve’s shirt and pressed against him and there was no mistaking the hardness Steve felt against his hip.

Which only made Steve’s arousal spike.

Just as he would during a spar, Steve bodily pushed forward taking Bucky back until he was pinned against the wall. He ground his hips, wanting Bucky to feel him, wanting to make up for earlier.

“Fuck, Steve--” Bucky groaned the words against Steve’s mouth and Steve had never heard anything so amazing in his life.

He pulled back, panting, his chest heaving and he grinned as he looked at Bucky. His wide eyes of before were now hooded with desire, his lips parted and red. He looked stunning.

Steve grinned. “You want to touch me?”

Bucky let out a fast breath, then said, deep and low, “God, yes.”

Steve started to untie his track pants, but Bucky shoved his hands away. He said nothing, but looked up at Steve through his lashes, grinning, as he pulled the tie apart and slid both hands under Steve’s waistband.

Steve shook, arousal roaring through him like a backdraft. He braced his hands against the wall, placed on either side of Bucky’s head. Bucky cupped him with one hand and swiped his thumb over Steve’s tip to draw moisture into his other hand. He stroked him fast and hard, both hands at work.

“Come for me, you little shit.”

Steve sobbed out a laugh, but then came so hard he saw white sparks behind his eyelids. Shaking, he started to sink down, then nearly dropped as his knees suddenly felt as weak as when he’d have an asthma attack as a child.

But Bucky caught him and lowered them both to the tiled balcony floor, holding Steve close. The feel of Bucky’s metal hand sliding through his hair felt oddly thrilling, and comforting, too.

When he breathing evened out, Steve chuckled softly and looked up at Bucky. “I think I just got punished by orgasm.”

Bucky grinned. “You did.”

They kissed again, languid, tender; Steve thought he could feed himself off these kisses, he found them that satisfying. He cupped Bucky’s nape and teased his fingers into his hair. All these touches, the intimacy that grew with every passing second, left Steve as breathless as his climax.

He smiled up at Bucky. “I want you to come back to my bed with me.”

Bucky’s answering smile was slow with a quirk of his mouth. “Thought you’d never ask.”

 

...TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to cut off there, but I felt badly that I’d already made you wait so long for this part, that I figured you’d rather have some resolution with more fluff and love still to come. Thanks so much for sticking with me and reading!


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